


Five Things

by Hopelikehell



Series: Five Things [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Mania AU - Fandom, Mania-verse
Genre: Ancient Beast AU, Gen, M/M, MANIA AU, implied sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-08-02 22:42:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16314008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopelikehell/pseuds/Hopelikehell
Summary: In the short time that Patrick had known Pete, he found that he could count on him for five things:He was scary.He was kind of an asshole.He was surprisingly resilient.He was always hungry.He was a very useful ally.





	1. Fear Itself

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction inspired by the creators of the [Mania AU](https://officialmaniaau.tumblr.com) on tumblr. The characters are not representive of the actual humans they are modeled after. 
> 
>  
> 
> This particular story set explores the character of Pete as he is seen in the eyes of others. Events are not linear, but I have tried to note when in the main story they occur. Comments would be awesome, as I am always trying to improve my writing.
> 
> ** - Refers to [this piece](https://officialmaniaau.tumblr.com/post/165787114101/funghoulies-oops-this-got-long-have-some-mania) I am in love with.

It would be unfair to say that Joe was afraid of the unknown. “Cautious” was more appropriate. “The unknown” was both too ominous and not ominous enough to describe what Joe knew and felt was out there - the unseen terrors lurking just outside of his sight lines, always in the dark. As long as Joe could see something or it’s aura, he could face it with at least some level of confidence. 

That was until he followed Patrick and the others into the Howls. 

Naturally, Patrick researched what the place would look and feel like, so as to get the group acclimated before actually going there. However, he made no mention of how the place would affect them. 

“Nothing is what it seems, but all will be as it is,” Patrick read from some ancient scroll. 

“What does that even mean?!?” exclaimed Joe. “Are you sure you’re reading it right?”

Patrick was arguably the only person who _could_ read it, so the oddity of the statement was left alone at the time. 

Joe understood the words now. The way he saw monsters, aside from his own, had changed once they passed the Devil’s Door. They were crystal clear. More real than ever. “This must be how Patrick sees them all the time,” he thought. But Joe saw even more; he saw exactly what they were fucking with for the past year and a half, in all its dark and sloppy glory. 

Every time Pete was around, Joe and Mooshke were not exactly happy about it. Joe supposed that Mooshke was slightly more tolerant than he was, but the monster didn’t have to deal with interacting with Pete the human. 

They both knew it was more than Pete’s presence. His monster always creeped them out. It’s aura was almost painful to observe; the prideful purple was typically eclipsed by the dark and dank greens and browns of jumbled and illegible emotions, while it’s yellow eyes held rage and suspicion. Joe never bothered to focus on more than the surface level. But now that he could see it fully, he felt that his visual ignorance of the creature was justified. 

He recalled a time that Patrick described the monster - or was he describing Pete himself? - “A wolf, a bug, and a snake this time.” **

All that Joe could currently think was, “Well, that’s accurate as fuck”.

Though it’s skin rippled like living sludge, the shape was consistent. From a large lupine body, six appendages protruded, two of which looked more like they were ripped from a hairy scorpion, complete with claws. The legs also resembled a wolf’s, but instead of paws, there were reptilian clawed feet. It’s wings might have been called “pretty” or even “delicate” had they been on a dragonfly. Yet on Pete’s monster, everything was grotesque. The wings were far too long, and with the sludge coating they looked very heavy.

Joe wondered if the wings could even carry the weight of its own body. Perhaps gravity didn’t exist on the monster’s plane. His own monster was a comically emaciated floating deer with three eyes and a flame between the antlers on its head.

Which, the more Joe thought about it, was way nicer than the one belonging to Pete’s monster. It was like a short-necked eel with teeth-on-teeth filling two separate mouths. One shifted with its shape while the other resembled a toucan-beaked dinosaur, devoid of color. To top it off were the eyes, glowing yellow and appearing randomly on the body without rhyme or reason. 

Of course Pete’s monster would be a strange conglomeration of random body parts; a fair twin to the vessel. Joe imagined that they shared a taste for blood and forks. But why was no one else freaking out about this? 

He turned to Andy, figuring that the monster’s appearance was a bit less revelatory for Patrick. 

“Dude. Are you seeing this?” Joe whispered. 

Andy looked in the direction of Pete’s monster and shrugged, “Yeah?”

“Why are you not creeped out? I know you’re all zen-master of chill, but I’ve always gotten bad vibes from it. And it’s even worse now that I can see it properly.”

“It’s just another part of Pete. Sure it’s a soul-devouring omnivore, but that’s all Pete and it have ever known. You know he can’t even see his monster, or any of ours for that matter,” Andy said calmly.

Joe glanced at Pete suspiciously. “What makes you say that?” He’s heard of a lot of crazy things, and knew that some people didn’t have a best sight when it came to monster. But to not even be aware of their existence? That was unheard of.

“You know, for someone who can see auras, you’re not great at seeing the obvious. Look. He never reacts to them. He never calms his monster when things get too intense, nor does the monster do the same for him. I’m sure you’ve seen Pete have the occasional ‘fit’. I’m still surprised it wasn’t triggered at the Gala. But look, it makes sense that he and his monster don’t share the same bond we do with ours, because he doesn’t even know he has one,” Andy summarized. 

“Okay, but that still doesn’t explain why you aren’t the least bit unsettled over its appearance,” Joe retorted. 

“Pete has essentially been living at my work for the past two years. And I’ve seen enough shit in the world to know that appearances say nothing about one’s character.”

Joe considered that possibility. Leave it to Andy to make him think of Pete as a person with “character.”

But it was much easier to be mad at the punkass kid that Patrick had made the bed and definitely laid in with. It was thanks to Pete that they were on a fucked up field trip to an inter-dimensional prison. Joe really wished he could have just shoved the man down the stairs before locking the door to their apartment on that fateful night. He wanted to wipe the smirk off of Pete’s face every second it appeared.

As Joe glanced over to the man in question, he was surprised to see his wish was granted. In its place was a grimace, as if he was deep in thought. He appeared to be sensing something that no one else could. The frown slowly deepened as Pete’s eyes widened in - what was that? Recognition? Awe? 

No. 

That was fear. 

And with that look, Joe had never been more terrified in his entire life.


	2. Handle With Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not really news that Pete’s a bit of a dick. Andy can be a dick right back to him, but he learns that Pete has a sensitive side. He can dish it but cannot really take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this is part of the awesome Mania-AU on tumblr. I’ve taken a few liberties and named Andy’s monster Zell (short for Axell, an ungendered name, but I prefer to think of it as a she). I think you’ll like the summary reference.
> 
> Feedback is always awesome! Enjoy!

In a dark warehouse on the south side of the city, a man and his monster work tirelessly during the early hours of the morning. Sparks fly as the welding torch sizzles and chirps against the metal. Despite the noise, Andy remains focused on the work while also keeping an ear open for possible unexpected guests. Or rather, the possibility of a specifically expected guest. 

And not five minutes later, said guest arrives with the sound of slop meeting pavement. As loud as it is to Andy, Zell is the only reason he can detect Pete’s presence without looking up. Even though it is blind, his monster can see better than most people with eyes. Andy’s close connection with his monster means he’s got a bit of a sixth sense that comes in handy for his line of work. 

Even though Andy has only known Pete on a personal level for less than five months, he knows his habits fairly well. Without even glancing at him, Andy figures that Pete just came back from the edge of the city. It had been a few days since he had last been around, which meant he had been hunting. Regardless of whether it was for food or fun, Pete was a sloppy consumer, but typically stealthy in his methodology. Stomach churning noises come from Pete’s direction, so his most recent meal was still settling. Which meant he needed medical attention and a safe space to sleep for a day. Which is why he was at Andy’s base. But Pete was still a prideful person and wouldn’t ask for help right away. So Andy lets him take his time. 

Still, he acknowledges his arrival with a nod and comments, “If you get blood-ooze on these blueprints, I’m going to find out if you’re as sneaky as you think you are.” He motions towards the contraption he is still working on. 

“What is that supposed to do? You couldn’t catch me the first three times you tried, so you’re building a trap cannon or something? If you couldn’t put me down, no one can,” Pete sneered. His shadow monster from the black lagoon puffs itself up and lets out a hiss-screech that resembles a velociraptor fighting a swarm of cicadas. Zell turns towards the monster and makes a grating noise of its own. 

“One day, someone will take you up on that prompt. Also this is not a trap cannon. It’s an electro blaster that gets its energy from the - okay nevermind, asshole. Please continue to ignore me,” Andy calls after Pete. 

“What did I just say about the blood-ooze, man? Hey, come back here! I still have a bone to pick with you about ripping one of our intel guy’s hand off. I wish you would pay a little bit more attention to the rules of the mission.” 

“I gave it back,” Pete counters petulantly. “Well, most of it.”

“That’s not funny. That shit might have flown when you were on your own, but if you’re gonna be that kind of fucked up, you can go back to the snake’s den,” Andy responds in irritation. 

Pete’s eyes narrow in anger. The blood-ooze tracks that followed him are emitting little blobs of goo that surround Pete. Out of his initial wound, a large muck wing branches out behind him. His face contorts as if something behind it is trying to break free. Pete’s mismatched eyes both glow yellow and it appears that the right side of his face has been seared off by a black flame of more eyes. 

“Shit! Dude, what’s up with you? What did I say?” Andy yells at the Pete that is not quite Pete. He has seen Pete have a “meltdown” before, but usually those were brought on by night terrors and seemed much more visceral.

He’s seen this before in some of the victims his crew rescues; trauma resurfacing in a way that puts the vessel’s life in danger. With a trained crisis interventionist, the occurrences deescalated with few issues. Andy was many things, but a trained crisis interventionist was not one of them. 

“Pete,” Andy says in his calmest voice possible. “What’s wrong? Did I say a bad word?”

Peter snarls, “Sssnakkkkke.”

 _Fuck,_ thinks Andy. The last thing Pete needed was a reminder of his recent past. Fucking Cobras. He didn’t even mean it literally. Not that it mattered to Pete. The only good snake was a dead snake and Pete learned that the hard way. 

“Pete, PETE, can you look at me? Not Zell. Okay good, look, I am sorry that I said the S-word. That was really mean of me, and even though you weren’t listening to me, I should have known better than to bring up those guys.”

Andy hates having to talk to Pete like he was a child, but in his current state, he would be impossible to reason with otherwise. Sometimes he forgets that Pete has only been conscious in the mortal world for maybe two years now, and what he’d done on his own was nothing short of miraculous considering where he came from. Andy didn’t know the entire story about his time with the Cobras, but he knows it ended extremely badly.

“Pete, you know you always have a home here. I’d never force you to go out on your own. That’s what you’re fighting for, remember? Your freedom to be you.” 

“Teaaakkk?” Pete squawks out. He turns his head to the side, much like a dog after it’s owner speaks to it. Except it’s much more off-putting to watch. 

“No tricks.” Andy puts both hands in the air. “Remember what I told you when you first came here? How trust is the most important thing to us? What did I say about trust?”

Pete thinks hard, searching through millions of memories that didn’t truly belong to him, until finally he croaks, “Trrrrusssstt iss whennn uuu vurrrnnabble nd notttt tttakennn vannnntttage offfff.”*

“Exactly. I tell you about hidden things and you get to go look for them, with one rule: don’t eat or bite people I tell you about.” 

Pete lets out an irritated screech.

“Now don’t you whine at me. You agreed to the rules when you came to us. You want to stay? You follow the rules. No bites.”

“Noooo byyytttss.” Pete sulks.

“Good. Let’s get you cleaned and stitched up,” Andy says. 

It takes a bit more convincing to actually clean Pete’s wounds out, as he’s still settling back into his own skin. Andy wonders if Pete even realizes he breaks out of his vessel and the consequences of it. Andy wonders many things about Pete. He tries not to think of him as a subject in an experiment, and treats him as a human with thoughts and emotions. It’s hard for him to not know the answers to Pete’s questions; it’s almost just as difficult for him to not ask Pete a million questions back.

Pete’s demeanor does soften after an hour, and Andy is able to tie off the last of the stitches. Pete fidgets with a hole in his jacket. 

“Hey buddy, everything okay?” He tries not to sound too concerned, but enough to let him open up. 

“Yeah. Fine,” Pete responds shortly. 

Before Andy can ask again, Pete continues, “Actually, can we just not talk about them. I know you’re not like them. You and everyone else has been.... nice?” He doesn’t look at Andy. “I’m not that kind of fucked up, right?”

“Oh, Pete,” Andy responds with surprise, realizing that Pete caught that part of his comment as well.

“You have to learn some self-control and not be so reactive. We can work on that. It’s great that it’s something you want to learn. See, that’s what sets you apart from the Cobras. They act before thinking and don’t care about the consequences. You do care though, right?” 

“Yeah, I think so? I mean, don’t want you mad or hurt.” 

Andy grins slightly as he says, “Don’t worry Pete. I think you’re the good kind of fucked up.”

As if by magic, Pete’s signature smirk lines his face again. “I think you’re the good kind of fucked up too.”

_Maybe Pete isn’t such an asshole after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * - "Trust is built when someone is vulnerable and not taken advantage of." --Bob Vanourek, author of Triple Crown Leadership


	3. An Old Book Misread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To most of Pete’s associates, his past is spotty at best. There are bits and pieces that various people know, but still not enough to put together a biography. Pete himself claims not to remember anything before he escaped. Patrick is a natural skeptic, but also an intent researcher. Chances are pretty good he’ll find something eventually. Whether he chooses to believe what he finds is another matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know by now that this AU is not mine, nor are the people in them. But this chapter is why I LOVE open sandbox AUs. I’m a pretty technical thinker, and everything needs an explanation. There are never enough answers to the “whys” and “hows” of the universe. I’m hoping that this not only shows just how resourceful and unique Pete is, but provides some insight into how things function in this world. It’s all personal canon, not official, but (I think) it’s an interesting take on Pete’s journey.
> 
> Please don’t be shy with comments and criticism! 
> 
> (Also, I found it really entertaining to change your voiceover settings to British English and highlighting the book text to read the excerpts aloud.)

The more Patrick spent time with Pete, the more he wanted to know about his past. He asked Andy for as much background as he could provide, but he was not always forthcoming and deferred him to Pete. Patrick was surprised to learn that Pete didn’t really know or remember much about before he left. He suspected there was a little more to the story that Pete was telling him, but he didn’t bother asking many follow up questions. He hated the need for secondary sources when he had access to first-hand accounts, but the library texts on the legends of the Big Bad would have to do. 

He found stories, myths, and drawings but nothing on how Pete even came to be. There were only a few texts left to browse on the subject. One looked extremely old, so he went with it. It was not a personal account, but read like a manual describing the Howls and its residents. It was written in a language that time had forgotten but appeared to have been published around the 12th century, which made the book even stranger. 

It was called, “A History Detailing the Beginning of the End of Infinity (And Various Times Between)”. It didn’t read like any history book he had ever encountered before. There were large sections on the original beasts who created the world, but instead of the old stories written with enchantments, this book was written in statements that were to be taken as fact. Patrick turned to the back section on the Howls and began to read.

// When an essence is plucked from the Depths of the Howls, it begins its existence as a nameless and thoughtless drone. It’s purpose is simple: assist the Damned in his day to day processes. It tracks harvesters and vessels in the field, follows leads on various rogue souls, and spies on questionable mortals and beasts. Although it lacks a truly conscious mind, it feels the hive’s emotions and understands the job it needs to perform at any given time. Occasionally, one drone is more efficient than the others of a similar spawning pool, but it is rarely recognized. //

There was once a spawning pool that showed no signs of being any different from the rest. Yet in the drones it produced, there was an essence with an edge. There was something in that specific essence that made it more adaptable to changes, more likely to return from a “high risk” mission than other drones. The drone had no concept of being disposable, and it would follow a good lead longer than most of its brothers and sisters. This essence was good at its job, even if it never realized it.

The drone was eventually picked for an upgrade. Still mindless, but full of intent, the drone became a harvester, and received a specially made vessel from its master. With this new form, it hunted for wandering souls and picked them indiscriminately. Young, old, resistant, subdued, beastly or simple. If the harvester could get its jaws on it, the soul in question would be removed from the mortal realm forever. Sometimes it heard a voice telling it to leave a difficult soul to another harvesting vessel. But this one was dedicated to its task. It was a good little worker bee. 

//Vessels, no matter how vicious they are designed to appear, do not have the ability to take a soul on their own. The harvester creature is the true housing for its own essence and soul, while the vessel is the housing for the creature and its collected souls. Harvesters without vessels can still carry other souls within them, but only the weak or very small. //

Upon returning to the Howls, it stuck to the line leading down one of the caverns. Other drones hoisted the vessel to a spindly creature with blade-like appendages. _The collectors,_ the creature inside the vessel was informed while drones tightened themselves around its ankles and wrists. For all it knew, this was standard procedure. Yet an unknown speck of fear ran through it all the same. The collectors slid their claws beneath its skin along the seams of its vessel. The harvester didn’t know exactly what followed, but the noises in its head were as unpleasant as the physical feelings on its body. There was only word it had to describe the experience.

Bad.

The thought repeatedly flushed through it while the screams of others ahead of it reverberated in its ears and mind. With every stitch cut open, souls would seep out with the vessel’s blood and gunk. The harvester’s true form emerged through the rips of skin and guts. It chittered rapidly, calling out to its family and creator or anything to make the bad feelings end. When there was nothing left for the harvester to give, the pain and the noise finally stopped. There was an engulfing silence, save for one voice - the only voice that mattered. 

The Big Bad plucked the harvester from the collectors and drones, and began to personally stitch its vessel back together. He croaked and hummed to his dutiful worker, almost in a comforting manner. He praised the harvester for doing such a good job and told it that it was special. The harvester would be sent on a mission that usually went to more advanced vessels. He warned that it would be taking more veracious souls, and may need to fight harder to keep its collection in line. The harvester nodded and felt something new: excitement. It liked that feeling and held onto it tightly.

When the vessel was sent back to the mortal world, it worked tirelessly with little sleep or food. It walked in the day, but stuck to the shadows. Even though it was a harvester at heart, the vessel’s body produced mortal sensations. It thrived on the human highs of endorphins released from the thrills of its job and the praise it received. But as with all drugs, the original hits don’t quite provide the same feelings they once did. Over time, it developed a new desire for personal pleasures. It didn’t need much; colorful things to look at, soft things to hold, and small things to fidget with while waiting for its next target. As the days grew longer and darker and colder, the harvester found it more difficult to do its job properly. 

// The Howls do not have seasons, and the Damned purposely does not prepare his vessels for the onslaught of winter. The warm times are ripe for plucking lost souls from the mortal realm. The cold times are for refilling the world with its true monsters. As such, the Damned’s vessels are only as strong as they need to be. He doesn’t expect or intend for any to survive, as dead vessels could be retrieved and brought back to his collection just as easily as live ones. //

The harvester studied the mortals as they added more skins to their bodies, so it sought out more skins of its own. Killing a mortal was not something that the Big Bad ever mentioned, but the harvester was not going to let the cold take it back to nothingness. It spotted a mortal’s excess skin that looked like the sky above, which it found to be a pleasurable sight. It didn’t encounter many live humans but the live ones were said to have much more depth than the dead. 

The harvester sensed that its prey was old and weak. It crept up behind the man and violently ripped out his throat. The skin was tough and the meat tasted foul, but the harvester need to eat as well as collect the soul inside. Cracking its vessel slightly, it’s incisors ripped away the excess flesh and muscle in search of the soul’s source. Upon finding it, the harvester fixated his jaws on the deepest essence and held it tightly, slowly suffocating the soul in its own body. It didn’t take much for this one; it was ready to go and the destination made no difference to it. The harvester reared it’s head back to swallow the soul whole, much like a large reptile consuming it’s prey.

// The harvesters with vessels do not require a diet as rigorous as a mortal’s. They will eat anything, even if it is not digestible. Expended vessels have been found with rocks, metals, and small glass shards inside them, but the practice does not damage them. They can also heal themselves, to a certain extent, with a secretion of clear sticky liquid. This is a minor repair mechanism that facilitates basic survival of the vessel, but it is useless in any occurrences of a fatal wound, dismemberment, or a full beast emergence. //

The harvester began to cocoon back into its vessel and sealed its skin together. When the vessel was restored, it took stock of what it had inherited. The shoes and pants didn’t fit its slightly mismatched legs, but there was a card inside one of the pockets with words it couldn’t read. It put the card in its own pocket and grabbed what it had really been after. The sky skin had soft clouds lining the neck and chest while bright images of earthly cousins were patched in random places. Beauty was not something it knew about, but this was the closest it felt to finding something appearing along those lines. It slipped the jacket on and instantly felt a sense of “good”. 

The harvester took another look at the card. 

“Peter Wentz  
1253 W Be-*illegible*  
*illegible*

DOB: 06/05/49 Eyes: GRN Hair: BLD Gender: MALE”

It tried its hardest to understand the words, but knew it would need help. Perhaps there was another like it in the world. 

// All of the Damned’s creatures are connected, as they are all extensions of their creator. This does not mean that they all feel the same. They all typically feel nothing unless it is pain or a sense of good and bad. The creatures can communicate with each other through the hivemind collective, be it to send information back to the neural centers or to allow a function to be performed. To their detriment, all thoughts are occurring at all times within the essence’s mind. As such, times of silence are exceedingly rare. //

It focused on the consistent hum in its head and attempted to isolate anything that sounded different. Something original; something human. It searched through waves of conversations and cries and unknown noises, but found nothing in the vast sea of sounds. In its disappointment, it allowed the waves to bring it back to the Howls; back to its home. Return. Return. Return. 

Time was irrelevant in the Howls, but it felt that it had just closed its eyes before they shot open again. The Big Bad’s voice rang in its head like an alarm. “Paaeettahhhh Wooonntssss”. 

He held the card from the vessel’s pocket in one of his sludge tentacles. It repeated the words over and over for about five minutes before it nearly perfected the sounds in human.

“Peetarr Winntsss.”

“And who might that be?” The Big Bad hissed in their own language. 

The young harvester pointed to itself and attempted to mimic the sounds, but it came out in screeches and clicks. The Big Bad laughed in an ugly manner. 

“You think you need a name? There is only one name that matters and it it mine. You are no better than your brothers and sisters, and they have no names,” the master boomed. 

“Remember your purpose. Do your job. Work for all, glory for none!” He lectured the harvester. It felt the words were being broadcast for all to hear. It heard the displeased chirps from its brothers and sisters. It felt not like home. This was not a good feeling. It wished that it could burrow itself into a hole like the other drones and workers. But then a new thought came to it: 

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’?” The Big Bad spat out, getting its sludge drops everywhere. 

“Why?” The harvester asked again. “Why everything?” And it thought again, “Why not every thing? Why things do? Why things do not do?” It could only express itself in simple thoughts, but even that was unexpected of its kind. Questions it had never considered or really understood pulled its brain in all directions and spilled out of its mouth. “What is purpose? Why you do?”

“How dare you question your creator. I could disassemble you in a minute,” the master growled. He wasn’t used to such insolence. He only had the violence card to play. But this one was not afraid. It had faced death before and found a way out. Threats were not taken seriously by this harvester, so he quickly changed tactics.

“Oh my special one, you want a name, I can give you a name. No more questions though. You always do a good job. Maybe you need some time to rest, immersed with us; you need to stay with the hive. Come back to us,” he said in the lightest tone it could muster. It opened its arms to the harvester, welcoming it to its home.

But the harvester never registered a word of it. Its brain kicked into overdrive and it couldn’t control the thoughts that windmilled through it. It recalled things that it had never experienced; it felt things that it had never recognized as feelings. It - no, HE - felt frustrated that his master wasn’t willing or able to answer his questions. What kind of master has no mastery? 

Instead of answering, he shut his eyes tight and thought of one word: OUT.

He repeated it over and over again.

_Get out. Let out. Want out. Need out._  
Get out. Let out. Want out. Need out.  
Get out. Let out. Want out. Need out. 

// All of the Big Bad’s creatures posses very low-level psychic powers, typically displayed in telethesia, telepathy, and teleportation. It stems from their creator who has these powers and is transferred when he uses ancient magic to put together his vessels and generate new beings to carry out his plans. Most drones and lower tiered creatures have no use for it, but others with specific purposes can only use it if explicitly directed to. None of the beings truly know of the power they possess, lest they adopt a more sentient nature by some unknown means. In dire times, creatures with especially strong wills can make use of their untapped abilities in order to ensure their continued existence. //

He felt himself moving while standing still. The whole earth beneath him shifted into nothingness, but he stayed upright with his eyes still shut. He feared that opening his eyes would bring him back to the true darkness. Back to a world he would never escape, with no wonders or answers. 

No. If that happened, he’d have to escape. He’d run forever. He realized there was more to life than being a mite in a mass. He’d claw his way back to the mortal world if it killed him. He could be strong, he didn’t need the constant buzz in his head from his family. He could survive. He would survive. 

He opened his eyes at last and found himself where he last was. On the mortal plane, under a tree in the early hours of the morning. Despite all the questions still spinning in his head, he chose not to question how or why he was able to return. That didn’t matter now. He was going to figure out humanity, and once he did, he was going to spread the word among his brothers and sisters. Then no one would have to question anything again. The Big Bad would be useless, and all would be good. But first, he needed to be powerful enough to return. Instinct told him that he needed to fight. He had no idea of how long he could be in the mortal realm before being dragged back to the Howls, so he had no time to waste. 

He put his hands in his pockets and felt something. The card. 

“Peter Wentz.” 

He didn’t need a name from the Big Bad. He found his own name. He didn’t need help. He was stronger than other vessels. He didn’t even need a map; the city lights in the distance would lead him somewhere. Far away was as good of a starting point as any. As he made his way to the road, he did his best to ignore the prickly whispers in the back of his mind, “come back come back”. 

There was no back; only forward. 

// Extensive research has been done on the creatures written in this chapter. It is dedicated to those who lost their lives, their souls, or their sanity in the process, as well as those to gained insight beyond imagination. The teachers and students learning as one for the same purpose. To *illegible*.//

Patrick closes the book thinking, “The fuck kind of ending is that?” He searches for a publishing date, an author, or any small detail that might lead him to those who studied people - no, creatures! - like Pete. All he finds is a small symbol under the dedication page that even he could not decipher. It wasn’t a glyph or letter. It was like a coded crest, but whose? And why would it have been coded? 

Patrick shakes his head. Enough research for the day. He promised Joe that he’d pick up some milk on his way home, and the shops were closing soon. He tucked the book into his bag and took a picture of the crest to check on later. 

With Pete, everything had to be a god damn mystery.


	4. We All Have A Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick thinks he’s completely different than Pete. He’s not an asshole all the time, he doesn’t eat people, and he prefers the simple things in life. Andy says that’s a load of BS and they are more alike than Patrick thinks.  
> They both have an almost desperate desire to know more about the world around them and actively seek out that information. They both are extremely loyal towards their friends, to the point of death even. They have a hunger inside them that drives their very existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly am not confident in my fluff or smut writing abilities. Yet I dabbled in a little bit (very very little) of each in this chapter. Enjoy!

It was half past ten in the evening and Patrick does his best to hurry home. He has to fight the foot traffic since the Green Line was inconveniently closed at his stop. He should have left earlier, but his recent contract was unable to send him the files until much later than anticipated. He prays that nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Or, at least more out of the ordinary than usual. 

He turns the final block and sees the light on in the living room. Joe is probably home. He wonders if he had the day off. Maybe they could splurge and order take-out or something. He runs up the three flights of stairs to their apartment. Champion ruffles his feathers as he races along with Patrick. He easily beats his vessel, and prances around with grins spreading across the beaks of both heads.

“Yeah yeah yeah, you won, but you’ve got four legs and I’ve only got two! Is that really fair?” Patrick’s asks his monster, who coos and snorts back, still with the grins on its faces. 

Champion walks into the apartment first so Patrick could lock the door behind them. Patrick notices that Joe’s keys aren’t back on the hook yet, nor are his work shoes laying haphazardly at the front door. Something else was though. A light trail of blood ooze.

_Pete._

At least it isn’t as bad as he’s seen before, but it was still unpleasant. Patrick quickly cleans up the floor before heading to his room. Otherwise Joe would know that Pete could still get into their apartment any time he wanted to. Patrick trusts Joe and would tell him pretty much everything without hesitation. Yet he still kept Pete’s visits a secret, especially since the time Joe walked in on them under the blankets. It was completely innocent, but it was still an event that made Patrick set his clocks early with three alarms. 

He walks in unsurprised to see Pete hanging upside down off his mattress holding Patrick’s old Gameboy system. The Legend of Zelda is loaded in the back. Pete’s arm is wrapped in what is possibly be an entire roll of toilet paper. He looks over to the closet corner and notices Pete’s monster sprawled out in Champion’s personal roost. Champion gives the other monster an indignant squawk and a nudge. 

He decides to address Pete first, since the other monster typically responded better to Champion. “Buddy, you gotta go. I know you love these blankets and stuff, but now isn’t a great -“

“What’s a ee-juh-juh?” Pete interrupts.

“Uhhh, a-a-a what?” Patrick stammers. 

“A ee-juh-juh,” Pete stays upside down and places the Gameboy on the floor. “Kinda looks like this,” he says while making an oval shape with his hands. 

Patrick drops his bag and takes a seat next to Pete while he continues to hold his hands above him. Pete has a rough and rude exterior, but Patrick sometimes forgets how little his world is. Lessons he remembers from elementary school are new and can be confusing to Pete. Concepts that everyone around them knows are foreign and slightly suspicious. Patrick truly worries a little bit about how Pete is functioning day to day; its moments like this that he can’t help but give in to him. But only just enough give to make Pete remember that Patrick has the reigns. 

And really, he should be much more annoyed that Pete is even here, and they haven’t even talked about the toilet paper arm, but _god damn_ if this isn’t one of the cutest things he’s seen from Pete in a while. The absolute absurdity of needing that much paper for anything is beyond him. 

“How do you spell it?” Patrick asks in an amused tone. If Pete’s going to learn, he’s going to get a proper lesson. 

Pete lowers his arms and covers his face with his hands. “E-G-G. Ee-juh-juh.” 

“Remember how I told you that almost every letter has at least two sounds? What if you used the other sounds for the letters?” Patrick is in teacher-mode now and he secretly loves it. Partly because he knows more than Pete, but partly because he never had the time or money to get a teaching degree. This was the next best thing. 

Pete screws up his face to think. “Eh-guh-guh?”

“You put all the sounds together and out pops an egg!” Patrick says with a laugh. 

“Egg? Egg. The fuck is an egg?”

Patrick’s smile drops off his face. “You’ve never had an egg before?”

Pete sits up abruptly and looks Patrick sharply in the eyes. But Patrick doesn’t waver in his stare back. It’s not a look of challenge but a look that says, “Whatever I’m about to say must be taken quite seriously.”

“I know it’s something that animals have to make babies. Andy said people can’t have eggs. Birds have eggs. Snakes have eggs,” Pete’s face screws up again when says the “S-word”. “Fish have eggs too.” 

Patrick holds Pete’s serious gaze, but seconds later he lets out a full body laugh, leaning forward and falling back with his head landing near Pete’s knees. 

“Goodness! That’s comedy gold, Pete. Your face and your voice are so serious and -“ Patrick curls over and laughs some more. “Oh Pete. Pete! Ahh I can’t breathe ha-ha-HA! Okay - no okay seriously,” Patrick takes a deep breath to steady his thoughts and voice. 

“Andy was right. People don’t have eggs in that sense. But people buy them to eat. You haven’t eaten an egg before, have you? Alright, come on dude. I’ll make you some eggs.” He rolls off the bed into a stand and holds out his hand. Pete looks at it for only a moment before grasping it and pulling himself toward Patrick. 

Patrick is always caught off-guard by Pete’s strength. Pete is suddenly close enough to him that he can almost feel the stubble on his face and definitely feels the brush of an exhale in his ear. It sends shivers down his spine and Patrick once again prays that Pete won’t pick up on it. It’s a moment that only lasts a few seconds, but it still feels like an eternity. His head feels cloudy and, still holding Pete’s hand, he rushes into the kitchen and starts fumbling around for various bowls and pans and tools. 

Patrick isn’t a mind-reader and he’d kill to have Joe’s aura ability right now. Pete definitely knows the power he has over Patrick. He doesn’t know the extent of it, but Patrick avoids the look in his eyes all the same. Let him think whatever he wants. He would show Pete that he wasn’t afraid of a challenge. And with this twenty minute egg-bake casserole, he’ll have enough time to prove it if he has to. 

He explains every step, trying to cut the tension between them. Patrick’s efforts to maintain his composure seem to go unnoticed by Pete. But at the same time, Patrick draws out his flourishes of mixing, even humming slightly because he knows Pete likes it. He has no idea why he is doing this to himself. What kind of crazy person would ever want to fuck this guy over the counter and drag his fingernails deep enough to leave unexplainable scratch marks burning in the moonlight. Definitely not him! He defiantly tries to bring back the persona that has his shit together and would not - should not! - be thinking such things. 

When the egg bake is finished, Patrick gives him a larger cut and places it on a plate with a fork. Pete isn’t a picky eater, so he chomps down a huge bite of baked eggs, some meat, and some vegetables that Pete had already forgotten the names of. 

“This shit is pretty good,” he says with a mouthful of egg.

And Patrick is so pleased with himself that he gives the rest of the egg bake to Pete and pretends not to notice him gnawing on the prongs of the fork. He saves a few pieces and brings them over to Champion and Pete’s monster, still asleep in his room. 

Champion had made a new nest using Patrick’s bag as the pillow. Patrick supposed he deserved that for not shoving away the other monster from his bed. However, Patrick got the sense that Champion wasn't thinking about the monster currently sleeping in his nest. 

The real monster was standing in his doorway licking his lips. “I’m still hungry. How about you?”

Patrick tells himself he isn’t up for this tonight. He is honestly exhausted from work and wants to sleep. He tries to play dumb. 

“I gave the last of it to the other guys,” he gestures to the yet untouched plates on the floor. “Maybe I could make something tomorrow? I should probably clean up the kitchen.” He makes a move for the door, not quite in futility. 

“Not really hungry for more eggs,” Pete grins.

“Well I’ll try and find something else in the kitchen,” he tries again to blow past Pete. 

“I want a Snacktrick.”

“Not on the menu, Pete. You know what, I’ll just clean the dishes in the morning. You know the way out. Goodni-“ Patrick is cut off by Pete snatching his hat. 

Pete suggestively licks the brim and says, “I suppose this will have to suffice. Just a small Snacktrick.” He brings the hat to his mouth once more but before he can take a bite, Patrick’s hands are at his throat. Both of them know that Pete is the physically stronger of the two, but that doesn’t stop either of them from pretending that isn’t true. 

“Give. It. Back.” Patrick growls, removing one hand from Pete’s neck to put his hand out for the hat. No one touches his hat. Not Joe, not Pete, not even his own mother. 

Pete obliges while still grinning from ear to ear. Patrick places the hat firmly back on his head. At the same time he’s moving his hands from Pete’s throat and instead grab the back of his hair. He steps close and whispers in his ear.

“Don’t ever touch my hat again and do not call me that stupid name. You might be known as the people eater around here, but I will eat you alive if you fucking do and say that shit again. You got that?”

Pete doesn’t answer so Patrick yanks his head back, exposing his throat to Patrick’s mouth. 

“I said, do you fucking understand?” Pete still says nothing, so Patrick runs his tongue and teeth along Pete’s neck, giving little nips here and there before latching himself to one of Pete’s earlobes. Now he’s the one breathing into the other’s ear. With the ear between his teeth, he asks again. “Do I make myself clear?”

Pete gasps with pleasure. Breathlessly, he responds, “Clear as crystal, bitch.” 

With the affirmative under his belt, and quite the affirmatives under both of their belts, Patrick pulls Pete from the doorframe and into a deep kiss. He slams the door behind them and begins to teach Pete a real lesson.

It turns out that Pete isn’t the only one with an insatiable appetite.


End file.
